Shades

by Eric Dallaire

  “Enter the car and sit in the back seat.” Jebediah obliged my instruction and sat down in the back seat without incident.

  Before Spenner and I entered the car, a pair of headlights appeared and flooded the area with bright light. Then a deep revving engine sound preceded the arrival of a massive yellow farm vehicle crashing through the bushes. Atop the giant tractor, the dark-haired driver looked down and spotted the smear of gore and splintered bone from the remains of his shade servant.

  “WHAT in the name of our great lord have you two assholes done?” he screamed then jumped down to the ground. He picked up the cracked skull of his former servant, then tossed it aside to ready his rusty pitchfork. “You squished MY PROPERTY to a goddamned pulp!” For emphasis, he brandished a long weapon against us.

  “Put down the fork, old man,” warned Spenner. “We are armed deputized agents of the IRS, and I've had my fill of southern hospitality today.”

  With a bad feeling gnawing at my stomach, my eyes darted around and spotted over two dozen shadowy forms walking behind the tractor. The shade’s owner arrived with company.

  “Government spooks...we don't like your kind in our parts,” the farmer replied with a slow drawl, stepping closer and twisting his pitchfork at us. He looked young and able-bodied; probably the son of the landowner, I presumed. Mud caked over his high black boots and he wore a thick yellow raincoat over his denim work clothes. When his brown eyes twinkled and his lips broke into a grin, I knew we faced a young man with something to prove.

  “Boys, protect me!” The farmer's command brought the attention of the three dozen shade farmhands. The undead servants dropped their burdens and marched toward their master. With a swiftness belying their dirty and thin bodies, the shades closed ranks and formed an imposing mob.

  Sizing up our situation, I realized the odds favored the farmer, especially since my weapon waited in the trunk. One hopeful thought surfaced, that the default serum programming prohibited Shades from directly harming humans. However, if the farmer had hired a local good-ole-boy neurochemist with enough skill to hack the serum, those restrictions could be bypassed. Judging by the smug look on the farmer’s face, I guessed he owned several modified and illegal shades capable of mangling us into something unrecognizable. Just as that thought crossed my mind, two shades, one wielding a hoe and the other garden shears, both stepped closer. Violence seemed inevitable. My mind raced to consider strategies to survive.

  “We were just passing through and had an accident,” I said in a calm voice, with my arms out wide and palms open. “Why don’t we get out of this rain and talk about it?”

  Emboldened by the shades gathering around him, the farmer walked closer toward me, threatening me with the three tips of his rusted but still sharp pitchfork.

  “You city assholes owe me a debt for my shade,” he demanded. “That was a good worker and you idiots turned it into road kill. I've got half a mind to take your car and let you both crawl back to the city.”

  “Take my car?” Spenner hissed. His lip curled crooked with a look of amusement, a look that invited trouble. “You're at fault for letting your shade cross the road. My car was damaged, so YOU owe me.”

  That answer inflamed the tension. The farmer took another step toward us, pitchfork lowered, and his shades formed a circle around us. Unfazed, Spenner flicked his stun-rod to life. The weapon exuded a smoky crimson glow of energy around its bulbous metal tip. The light from his stun-rod illuminated the mottled, impassive faces of the shades, a stark contrast to the farmer's snarled lips and furrowed brow.

  “Mighty nice glowstick you have there. Boys, go ahead and rip this...”

  Feeling desperate, I blurted out a risky compromise.

  “WAIT!” I yelled. “You like the stun-rod? That’s military grade. Take it. It’s worth more than two of your shades.”

  Spenner’s eyes smoldered. Given his anger, I shifted my stance just in case he decided to attack me for offering up his weapon.

  “Well, boy?” the farmer said, pointing his pudgy finger toward Spenner. “I reckon that's a fair deal. I'll forgive you for destroying my chattel if you hand over the glow stick. I could use it to fight off the rustlers that been raiding me lately.”

  Spenner stood silent for a moment. I heard his knuckles crack from tightening his grip on the stun-rod. A facial muscle twitched to betray a rage he held inside. Then his posture changed, and an odd expression of amusement played over his face. Unseen by the farmer, his nimble fingers slid across the stun-rod, pressing a few indented buttons on the weapon until it issued a low-pitched whine. The glow changed from crimson to a dull blue. I assumed he put it into safety mode so he could hand it off.

  “Fine,” Spenner acquiesced. “Forget you saw us, get out of our way, and this is yours.”

  “Deal,” said the farmer, snatching the offering in a hurry. For a few moments he seemed mesmerized by the inky blue energy issuing from the crown of the rod. Combining the blunt damage from reinforced titanium and the raw power of an industrial electrical stunner, the stun-rod proved to be a formidable melee weapon.

  “Follow me, boys,” the farmer called out. “Time to get out of this rain and go home.” Without a word, the pack of thirty-six shades picked up their soggy bales and lumbered through the mud behind their master. The farmer climbed up to his tractor seat, then admired the shimmering mace like some burning victory torch. Before he drove away, I could have sworn that I heard the whine from the weapon grow louder.

  Not wanting to stay longer, we rushed back into the car. Time to see if our repair job worked. With a touch of the console, Spenner started the car’s engine with a mechanical roar. Satisfied with his repair job, he turned to me with a smile and I braced myself for an argument related to the loss of his stun-rod.

  “Good thinking back there,” he said as we started to drive off. “Really clever of you to offer the stunner to him. Now, let's get out of here before the fireworks.”

  As I struggled to understand what Spenner meant, a loud explosion rocked the surrounding area followed by a bright red flash and a plume of crimson smoke.

  “What in the hell did you do?” I yelled in protest.

  “Spare the rod, spoil the child,” Spenner chuckled, pushing the car into a higher gear. “He got what he deserved.” Then I recalled Spenner pressing the extra buttons on the stun-rod before he gave the weapon to the farmer. I realized his subtle movements had set the stun-rod on self-destruct, and that the whining noise had come from a massive overcharge of its power core. We departed the farm in silence, bumping over a piece of debris from the exploded tractor before we rejoined the open highway again.

  During the rest of the ride home, I accessed the car's computer from the passenger console, pretending to check road conditions and traffic. While Spenner focused on driving, I downloaded all the video footage from the car’s recording camera to prove Spenner murdered the farmer. With a few nonchalant taps, I transferred the data to my wrist-com storage banks.

  “I have the video,” Sasha confirmed. “The video quality is poor due to the storm, but convincing enough. I will feel much better when you have parted ways with your current partner.” As her code architect, I swelled with a father’s pride knowing that her empathy engrams registered compassion and an appropriate distaste for Spenner. During the remainder of the trip, we passed another five farms and six shade-staffed quarry mills without incident. Of course, I let the sociopathic driver choose the radio stations for the remainder of the trip.

  * * *

  After explaining the farm encounter to my interrogators, a sensation of weariness overtook me. The IRS command room spun around as if I stood in the center of a merry-go-round. I chalked this up to sleep deprivation, dehydration, and hunger, all part of the strategy my interrogators employed to wring the truth out of me. After I shook my head, my vision steadied and the nausea passed.

  An influx of collection agents and supervisors buzzed around the large r
oom, doing their business and delivering reports to superiors. Along the far wall, a series of pod-cubes contained IRS tax auditors in the midst of heated discussions with debtors, most of them v-casting in remotely from different parts of the world.

  In the room’s center, a double-sized floating screen displayed the infamous Most Wanted List. Only the most dangerous criminals and deceased debtors with the largest bills made it onto that list. Each of the names also showed the IRS agent assigned to that particular case. Scanning the list from bottom to top, my eyes widened when I saw the top position on the board.

  ** Incorporeal Revenue Service. Most Wanted. (Classified) **

  ** 1. Col. Colin Spenner **

  ** Assigned IRS Agent: Casey Steele (DECEASED) **

  Adjacent to the Most Wanted List screen, another display showed an interactive map dedicated to tracking Spenner’s movements. Five feet behind, a black-suited junior agent walked up to Barnaby and asked to give him an update. I leaned back and strained to hear.

  “Agents Steele and Hunt both disappeared off the grid today,” said the junior agent in a worried voice. “We--we don’t have any current leads.”

  “Activate Bellamy and Hicks,” whispered Barnaby. “I want Colin back on our grid.”

  Before I heard any more of the conversation, Erasmus interrupted my eavesdropping by handing me a cool glass of water.

  “You must be parched, my son, please drink,” he said. I eyed the glass, looking for any traces of sediment indicating drugs. My thirst won over my suspicion and I sipped the water. Satisfied with its purity, I gulped the whole cup and felt refreshed.

  “After Spenner drove over the farmer’s shade…it was most kind of you to offer the Lord's blessing,” Erasmus said. “Unnecessary, of course, since the soul had already migrated to Him, All Glory in the Highest. But a kind and noble gesture, my son.” My instincts told me that the priest’s warm demeanor felt genuine, but I reminded myself that in my weakened state I would start becoming more susceptible to their small acts of kindness. I steeled myself for the next round of questioning.

  “Sasha did release a small snippet of video to us of the farmer’s death,” continued Erasmus. “The footage exonerates you and clearly implicates Spenner.”

  “Your AI refused to give us all of the video footage from your trip,” Barnaby said. “Tell her to comply.”

  “In time, Barnaby,” Erasmus countered. “Let us allow our guest to continue his account. Jonah, would you indulge us with the remainder of your story?”

  I nodded, and my mind sifted through yesterday’s events, when Spenner and I had arrived in New York.

  CHAPTER 4

  Debt on Arrival

  “First our pleasures die - and then our hopes, and then our fears – and when these are dead, the debt is due, dust claims dust - and we die too.”

  - Excerpt from “Death is Here and Death is There”, Percy Bysshe Shelley

  >> DATE: Sept. 23rd, 2039. Thirty-six hours before present time.

  >> LOCATION: New York City.

  Much to my relief, we arrived in New York City without any more undesirable incidents. The sun relinquished the sky to wispy clouds and an eager moon. The slick remains of a passing storm made the streets an electric river. Our car drove over wet roads reflecting the neon signs of restaurants, advertisements, theater marquees, peep shows, and other human necessities for sale. We continued through a run-down section of Washington Heights filled with a crowd of young Puerto Rican, Cuban, and Dominican teens huddled outside the entrance of a neighborhood bodega. Crowning a tall metal post and doubling as a street lamp, a spherical mark-2 v-cast generator shimmered. The machine glowed bright and transmitted a portion of its proto-matter to a virtual billboard above the store. A flash of light coalesced into a luxury convertible, replete with a classic cherry red paint coating and modern aero-thruster fins, revolving above the crowd. Like a gleaming idol to capitalism or a monument to hope, the full-sized hologram basked the youths in the mesmerizing allure of instant social status. They all stood agape under the blazing digital billboard, entranced by a photonic message burning into their retinas. The billboard read:

  ** Why Wait For Luxury? **

  ** Drive home the car of your dreams, NOW! **

  ** Pay it off LATER, for ONLY nice afterdeath years! **

  ** Today’s Deal: LX Victory Sedan. **

  ** Equipped for air and ground travel. **

  ** United Automotive. Live Your Life, TODAY! **

  That kind of advertisement appeared after the powerful Committee for Brave New Commerce lobbyists advocated the public bartering for afterdeath years. As expected, a majority of citizens, keen to expand their credit options amidst a strained economy, approved the legislation. This change allowed car companies, jewelry stores, and home mortgage companies to entice people with the ultimate layaway service. Somewhere the devil laughed his ass off at us for inviting him back onto Earth.

  The car took a sharp turn, and the illumination from downtown's commercialism faded, replaced by the soft yellow and white glows from coffee shops and Wall Street offices working overtime. Spenner pulled over at the spot I pointed out, a few blocks from my house.

  “Fifteen thousand, you earned it,” he said, accessing his wrist-com to transfer the funds. With four taps on his crimson-hued console, the bounty transferred to my account. “There are bigger contracts due for reaping soon. Business isn’t slow.”

  “The payment has been deposited from an off-planet source,” Sasha verified. “A private bank on the Lunar Spire.” The mention of the Spire made me look skyward to gaze at the moon. Visible from Earth, the Spire represented the pinnacle of human achievement, a modern wonder that housed the moon’s ultra-rich. My gaze drifted down to the car’s backseat, where Jebediah sat motionless, awaiting his next order.

  “What about Jebediah?”

  “I’ll turn him in,” Spenner offered, revving the car’s engine. “The closest IRS dead depot is on my way. I’ll be in touch soon.” With that, he sped away and disappeared around the next street corner.

  While walking toward my apartment, my brain started to work out how to manage two critical issues. First, the Vanessa situation demanded immediate attention. My soon-to-be-ex-girlfriend frowned on my profession. Last week, she’d made her displeasure clear with a withering barrage of expletives tinged with reasoned arguments against collecting debts. Second, the question of Spenner needed to be addressed. On one hand, doing more missions threatened my tenuous relationship with Vanessa. On the other hand, collection jobs represented a way to repay my family's debts and buy two first class space shuttle tickets to a new life. Looming over all these worries was the possibility that I could be charged as an accessory to murder. Although the farmer had threatened us, any self-defense argument would fail to overcome the simple fact that Spenner had killed the man after the conflict already deescalated. The idea of reporting Spenner to the authorities with an anonymous video upload crossed my mind. Caution stayed my hand. If I turned the video in, a man like Spenner would know who betrayed him. This decision needed to be slept on.

  When I rounded a street corner, a series of shop window advertisements detected me and illuminated, turning on one after another. These electrical screens hawked their goods while some utilized the v-cast generators for more sophisticated advertisement. Around the corner, a beautiful redheaded virtual woman bared her breasts to accent her diamond necklace. I passed through her projected form, feeling the semi-solid proto-matter scatter around me like dew. Further ahead, four displays synced to display a single image. Appearing on the split-screens, a white-suited, pale-skinned man wearing a red fedora bowed with an exaggerated flourish. His trimmed black beard accentuated his wide smile while his commercial pitch flashed on the display with bold lettering.

  ----- DO YOU HAVE A TECHNICAL PROBLEM? -----

  ----- Does a virus have you sick with worry? -----

  ----- Wish it away! -----

&nb
sp; ----- Summon THE WHITE DJINN, today! -----

  ----- Ask about my financing specials. -----

  The absurdity of the advertisement made me chuckle. Most of the hacker community knew something about the minor celebrity that called himself the White Djinn. His real name remained a mystery; he only answered to his mythological moniker. According to local lore, if one summoned him, he granted answers to any questions after receiving payment. Before I crossed the street, the proto-matter left behind from the redheaded woman swirled and coalesced. The White Djinn assumed a semi-corporeal form and stepped out of the flat screens. With a brisk stride, he walked beside me.

  “You never know when you will need the Djinn’s aid,” said the man, keeping pace until he reached the limit of the v-cast generator’s range. “A free fortune for you. When you’re in trouble, you must buy her flowers…Jonah.” As I turned back to face him, the projected body dissipated, leaving only his winking eye that dispersed into twinkling photonic embers. I wondered whether the White Djinn programmed a convincing smart-advertisement, or if he just v-casted in person. A sudden downpour pulled my attention back to finding shelter. Sprinting through puddles, I found cover under the awning of the local butcher shop. Then my thoughts returned to dealing with my first problem: repairing relations with Vanessa. A plan started to form inside my head, tracing a route across the city. Bringing home her favorite Chinese take-out food would be a solid start. Then my eyes drifted across the street to the chocolatier shop. She fancied their chocolate-covered strawberries, and those treats had absolved me from several past sins. While wondering which present to buy first, the White Djinn’s fortune popped in my head. This situation warranted flowers and chocolate. After running through the rain to purchase a box of the strawberries, I hugged the brick walls to stay dry and ran to the local flower shop. Inside, the aromas of lilacs, orchids, and roses greeted me, followed by the short figure of Mrs. Hsu, a sweet middle-aged Chinese woman beaming with a warm smile.